


Moments (In Time)

by Anonymous



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Breakup Sex, M/M, Open Ending, it might be happy it might be sad, it's up to you, just as a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 06:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Their clothes end up in a pile at the end of the bed.





	Moments (In Time)

Their clothes end up in a pile at the end of the bed.

He should probably fold those. Freddie’s in particular; he was wearing his favorite shirt, designer silk from New York, barely worn since its production in the 60’s. It’s a pain to dry clean but it makes him smile and it brings out his eyes, and he’ll probably be sad to see it wrinkled.

At least Brian won’t have to be the one taking it to the cleaner’s anymore.

The rain is running down the window in the way only English rain can, enclosing the room in a watery bubble of greys and blues. Freddie’s breath is hot against his cheek. He tries to catch his eyes but Freddie turns his head away, cheek pressed against the pillow. Brian accepts that; accepts the honesty in that, and leans close enough that he doesn’t even have to look at him.

“Ready?” he asks.

Freddie nods.

His first thrust is slow and gentle, and then so is his second, and then he falls into the rhythm of it. He breathes in time and drags each movement out, ingrains it into his head: the slow roll of his hips, the way the oxygen hits his lungs in sweet counterpoint, Freddie’s cut off sounds.

Freddie’s hand drifts up, fingers trembling as they trace Brian’s cheek uncertainly, and Brian has to press his forehead into Freddie’s temple.

“Bri,” Freddie sighs, and then falls silent.

Brian sighs against his cheek. If he tries hard enough he can pretend this isn’t the last time. He does it: closes his eyes and focuses. Freddie isn’t leaving after this. He’ll curl up in Brian’s arms where he belongs and he’ll stay.

He can’t not hold him closer then.

He touches him like he used to when things were easier. He slips a hand beneath the back of his neck, fitting into the space there perfectly just like it always has, Freddie’s hair soft against his skin. He curls over him and holds him close, rocking them together slowly, and Freddie’s careful fingertips leave his cheek finally, arm hooking over the back of his shoulders and legs wrapping around his waist until he can cling to him.

It’s impossible to pretend everything is fine.

“Bri,” Freddie whispers again, and this time his voice is choked.

Brian pulls back far enough to see the tears in his eyes and then leans close again until their foreheads are pressed together, noses bumping, his hair falling around them and blocking out the light. He doesn’t kiss him. He can’t bring himself to, just reaches up with his free hand and brushes one of the tears away with the pad of his thumb until one of his own tears splashes against Freddie’s cheek and startles him.

“Brian,” Freddie murmurs insistently, voice horribly sad, and tugs him downward.

His lips are shaking against Brian’s own. Nonetheless it’s perfect; it tastes like salt but it’s perfect; they can’t stop gasping but it’s as perfect as it always is, as toe-curling and all-consuming as ever, and Brian feels sick.

_I love you,_ he thinks, but he can’t say it. _I love you. Don’t hurt me. I love you so much. _

Freddie sighs shakily against his lips.

Everything has to end, though. Even this has to end eventually. It’s a counterpoint to the pleasure of it, to the working of their bodies, the sweat and the salt. All things must end.

Everything has to end, even this.

They’re silent after.

Brian hovers over him for one awkward second before moving carefully to the side, lowering himself down onto the mattress. Neither of them say anything and he hears Freddie swallow. His fingers work in a dull circle on Brian’s shoulder blade.

“Paul will be here in a few minutes,” he says finally.

Brian shuts his eyes. “Alright.”

The rain taps steadily against the window. He’d left the window open and the curtain is turning translucent, dripping water steadily onto his hardwood floor. It’s going to stain.

“Tell Roger hello.”

Brian sighs. He lets the silence linger for a second. “Tell him yourself,” he murmurs finally.

Freddie stills. “John, then. Tell John.”

“He won’t want to hear it unless it’s coming from you.”

“What do you want me to say, Brian?” Freddie says, tone shaky but firm. He’s not yelling; not yet. Brian knows he will if he’s pushed. “What do you want me to do? You want me to grovel? Is that it?”

“Would that really be so hard?”

“I can’t just—” he starts, then stops.

Brian rolls over to face him. He takes in the tears still staining his cheeks. He reaches out to brush one away.

This isn’t right. They can’t just leave each other. This isn’t right.

“This was a mistake,” Freddie says lowly.

“I know it was.”

Freddie looks at him helplessly, eyes red and pleading.

And they’ve always moved in sync—on stage, in the studio, at home, they’ve always moved in sync. They’ve always been each other’s perfect counterpoint, black to white, light to dark. They’re two stubborn animals, two prideful creatures, the figurative rock and hard place. They could never stoop down and make this work.

Brian swallows, hard. He steels himself mentally. He gathers together every bit of his pride that he can, and then he says it.

“Stay.”

Freddie sucks in a breath.

“Don’t go to Munich. Stay with me.”

Their eyes meet for a long minute, the two of them silent. Brian feels just as surprised as Freddie looks. Finally Freddie licks his lips. “Why?” he asks, voice rough.

There are a million reasons. There are a million and three. He shrugs. “I love you,” he says simply, and Freddie’s eyes get somehow wider. “This is a mess. I don’t know the way forward but I love, I love, I love you. Please stay with me.”

Freddie’s eyes fill with tears.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Brian continues softly. “I don’t know how we’re going to make any of this work. We can’t stop fighting. We never stop arguing, but I can’t throw this away. I just can’t, and I don’t think you can either. I don’t think you want to.”

Freddie shakes his head. “Brian…”

“And we’re going to have to work for it, yeah. Me and John and Roger, too. All four of us are going to have to work. We’ll get better, though. Don’t you—do you want to make this work? Can you try?”

He swallows, head ducking, shaking it slowly a few times. A tear flies out, catching the light. “I don’t know how,” he chokes out.

“We’ll figure it out. We have to do it together.”

“The others don’t want anything to do with me.”

“That’s not true.”

He wipes his eyes, hands still shaking. It’s not nerves, like Brian originally thought. He should know by now what withdrawal looks like. “I need all four of you,” Freddie says. “You three, but I need him too. I can’t just throw him off to the side like that.”

Brian shakes his head. His chest aches suddenly; actually, physically aches. “We love you, Freddie,” he says, defeated. “Tell me he can give you that.”

And he can see the moment he gives up arguing. His shoulders dip inward and he breathes in once, shuddering. Brian sits up and ducks forward just in time to catch him.

Freddie’s face is buried in his hair again, breath coming quick, this time in sobs instead of breaths of pleasure.

Brian keeps his eyes on the rain trailing down the window and breathes him in again. His skin smells sweet the way it always does with an undercurrent of sweat. It’s mixing with the smell of rain and clean sheets.

“They’re never going to forgive me,” Freddie gets out.

“They will.”

“I don’t know if I want them to.”

“Freddie, they will. I forgive you. I already do. Of course they will too.”

“Fuck you,” Freddie snaps, fist pounding once into Brian’s shoulder. “_Fuck_ you! I’m trying to—why are you doing this?” He pulls away, face somehow twisted even more than it was before. “I swear to God, Brian.”

“You’re not trying to leave me. You’re trying to get me to leave you,” Brian says, voice a lot surer than he feels, because he hadn’t thought about it until that moment. “That’s what you want, right? Tough shit. I’m not going, so you might as well accept that.”

Freddie sags into him.

“I’m not leaving you, Freddie,” Brian says again, softer this time and more to himself than anything.

Maybe he’ll need to remind himself again.

This isn’t always pleasant. They aren’t the boys they once were. They aren’t running around London in their platform boots anymore, tripping over loose stones in Spitalfields and pointing out which houses in Kensington they’d buy as soon as they became rich and famous. Brian isn’t teasing him about his cooking abilities anymore. Freddie isn’t trying to find him a nice girl to settle down with.

Those days are done. The moment is done.

This is all they have left. All they have left is this version of themselves. They can’t stretch each minute on indefinitely; the world doesn’t work like that.

The puddle on the floor is growing. It’s going to reach the rug. He should really put a towel down.

“Maybe you should think about it,” Freddie says quietly. His fingers curl into fists against Brian’s bare back.

This is all they have; this fishbowl room, this rainy city. Their friends are outside somewhere. John usually starts drinking around two; Roger likes to start a little later, but he catches up faster. Brian begins making the mental calculations of how far in each of them are by this hour before he even knows that he’s doing it.

In a house in Kensington the cats have just finished lunch.

He thinks of their first shows. He thinks of the power going out, thinks of Roger throwing a fit and of John’s twitchy fingers as he eyed the wiring below the stage.

This is all they have.

He thinks of later, much later, crowds growing bigger and Freddie growing with them, growing wings and taking off. He thinks of it and he can’t stop.

This is all. This is it.

Whatever they are right now, no matter how many lines of powder pass through the studio, no matter how many songs almost bring them to blows, all they have is each other. Standing on this ledge, toes numb, wind whipping through their hair, the city of Munich growing like a weed far below, he knows that all they have is each other.

Freddie’s shirt is still in a heap. It’s going to get wrinkles.

Freddie himself sniffles into Brian’s shoulder.

The rain outside grows harder, but still Brian can hear the sound of an engine below the rush of it. It grows in volume and then cuts off.

They could run away together. Freddie would never like it. They could run far, far away; maybe to Switzerland. They have studios in the mountains there. Peaceful, people say. Far removed. Away from all the fame, the money and the stress. A place they could finally get something done.

They could go home. They could hide away in the grittier parts of Kensington—no, but they could never hide there. They could never get away.

There’s always South America. There’s always the moon.

There’s always this fishbowl of a bedroom. He doesn’t have to leave. Neither of them ever have to leave. This moment can just stretch on forever. This can be eternity: the two of them standing on the edge, tangled in each other, the world lost in shades of blue and grey.

But everything must end eventually. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that.

Freddie’s fingers twitch against his back, his breathing slowing gradually. Brian kisses the space just below his ears and he shivers.

A car door slams. The rain beats down. The puddle grows on the floor.

Someone knocks on the front door.

**Author's Note:**

> its been a hard week don't even look at me. but please lmk if you liked it!


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